I witnessed the birth of video games. Imagine a game where you control a dolphin who carries the burden of saving other dolphins across the sea. But the dolphin looks only vaguely like a dolphin, and the sea is far too blue, and the crabs far too hostile. This dolphin only travels in a single plane – from left to right, up and down – within the confines of small television housed in a classy wooden frame.

I have a friend who secretly loved everything about this game…except for the magical blowfish. They were magical because they could pass through walls. And if you killed one you’d blink and there he’d be again. One of my many fond childhood memories is watching my friend mock that blowfish and shout through spittle at the screen, “I’m a magical blowfish!”

I’m writing a story that includes a tornado as a plot device…the darkest, meanest, and most malicious tornado you can fathom. He’s a mutant of tornadoes; taking on all destructive aspects of every tornado I can find in history. Can a tornado like this exist? It’s within the realms of science and possibility. So why then is it a magical tornado? Because like the magical blowfish, the tornado is ultimately an insignificant story element that arbitrarily blocks the protagonist without any plausible explanation for being able to do so.